Clockwork Boredom
by Rhowanna
Summary: 'The Game' is slow, Sherlock cannot  indulge in narcotics, but discovers a new way to fend of boredom. I wanted to explain how he felt and why... things all click into place when Sherlock 'borrows' John's gun, based heavily on the BBC series.
1. Chapter 1

What Watson sees.

Another day in London, I could hear the congestion snaking its way past the window of 221B Baker Street as I turned to stare out of it, and marvelled at just how extraordinarily grey a day could be. And how boring. Since 'A Study in Pink', there had been no more frantic scuffles out the door, no more unexpected texts and nothing more for Sherlock to deduce. This of course had set his mind on edge, teetering on the precipice that would send him into an almost catatonic state.

**Recently, I had observed him spending stupendous amounts of time languishing on the couch in our living room, staring at the ceiling as if hoping a cryptic puzzle would miraculously materialise out of the airtex there and give his mind something, ANYTHING to work over. After witnessing many weeks of his half lidded eyes and Nicotined arms, I had come to the conclusion that his mind must be like a clock. A huge, magnificent time piece that keeps ticking over, and over and over, whether the owner of the timepiece wishes it to or not. But all these cogs and wheels need oiling, and for Sherlock this oil was the rush of adrenaline that accompanies 'The Game'. **

I had tried desperately to interest him in something else, even going so far as deliberately sneaking out without telling him, in the hopes that he would jump up from the settee, and proclaim loudly that he knew exactly where I had been by the mud on my shoe, or why I had been by the ink on my thumb or the state of our fridge. But no, these were too trivial matters. He did, of course, observe that I was gone, but revealing how he knew I had nipped to the shop for a pint of milk held no relish. So the wheels had started to grind, and the number of patches had started to increase. Until that day.

As I lay there peering idly out my window, the dull thunder of cars was broke by a loud crack. A horribly familiar shot that echoed of the walls, in a panic I reached for my gun, and found it wasn't in the side draw where I kept it – paranoid. Leaping out of my bed like a mad man, with my thick jumper pulled over my head and my blond bed hair of no concern, I constrained myself enough to stop at the door of our living quarters, only to find Sherlock. With my revolver. Shooting at Mrs. Hudson's wall.

"Sherlock? What the devil do you think you are doing?" I placed my hands over my ears and scrunched my face up against the hideous noise the crumbling plaster was making.

He was sitting in my favourite chair; blue dressing gown flung open, long legs crossed at the ankle and pale arm extended. As he turned his black curls in my direction I saw the sneer in his plump lips and the glittering of his eyes.

"Bored!" He shouted, his deep baritone several octaves higher. "Bored, bored, BORED!"

As he yelled, he sprung to his feet; stood tall and twisted his back so as to shoot from behind it. Another vicious twist and he was standing front-on to the wall, and at this point I must admit I was scared he would do an injury to himself. So I did the first rational thing that came into my mind and rugby tackled him to the ground.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me!"I huffed, and with this, we landed in a tangled on the floor- the gun having spun several feet away and landed on the floorboards like a stranded fish.

"Oh John do get off me!"He said, dryly. "You are rather heavy and I don't want to give Mrs. Hudson ideas" I blushed as he wriggled out from beneath me and stalked off, back to his sofa which I was sure by now had a Sherlock shaped dent in it.

"Tea?" I asked, turning my face away and heading for the kitchen, studiously ignoring the floating eyeball and dismembered finger in the margarine tub that he had yet to get round to processing.

I boiled the kettle with my back to him, busying my work roughened hands with teabags and milk.

"John?" I couldn't decipher his baritone.

_Sigh._ "Yes? What did I do wrong now? Stop you from demolishing the very nice wall, of the very nice room, that the very nice Mrs. Hudson rents to us?" I was growing a little weary of his childish ways, as no matter how much I studied him I had no propensity for predicting What Would Be Next.

"You're annoyed I took your revolver" He hadn't lost the ability to surprise me with his astounding facility to point out the obvious; of course I was annoyed. He had gone from being a coma patient to a mental man in less time than it takes to say "sociopath". But of course. That was why he didn't understand – it wasn't that he didn't want to, he couldn't.

"A bit. Yes." Tea complete, I shuffled over to the coffee table and placed his drink before him. As I settled back into the depths of my chair he whipped round, facing me, his long nervous fingers placed against his lips as if in prayer.

"You'll never understand. You simply couldn't. Not with a mind like yours"

I had the good grace to look offended.

"You're a _soldier_" he admonished, screwing up his nose in thought. _Oh well that's alright then_. I didn't say anything.

He sulked as I sipped my tea – eyebrows raised. His own eyebrows frowned as he sorted bits of unnecessary information out of head. I didn't know for the life of me what he was trying to say.

Sherlock's self deduction

There was nothing for me to do. John wandered through his dreary existence as if he hadn't a care in the world. But I couldn't. I can't. There is always a problem out there – a mystery – a question begging for me to unravel it's weave and find the answer nestled within its fabric.

I can't think trivial things. One's mind is like a room, only fit to be furnished with appropriate furniture for the user's intent. One must refurbish it often with nothing but the most important items, like an intense study of footprints and the men that create them.

So when it's quiet, and nothing presents itself, I crave. I crave the feeling that I get from solving something, entertaining my mind, putting it to use, the ability to walk about my head and pick up the pieces I need. I cannot do this if nothing presents itself, however, if I were to stimulate my senses in a less conventional manner, then the feeling can be achieved. Heroin. Cocaine. Two substances perfect for occupying the mind during lonely days. Once decanted into the bloodstream they make their way quickly to the neurones and allow the brain to be free. Floating on a cloud of euphoria; clear, transcended thought.

But I had promised Lestrade that I wouldn't, and although promises mean nothing to me I know that he values them, as child does their parents word. So instead I lay there; what was the point? Everything was so _easy._ There was nothing scintillating about John's whereabouts- even _he_ could have told _himself_ where he was going, it was that obvious.

I needed a rush, and I know after many years the sound of gunfire has always provided it. When out on a particularly nasty case with Lestrade, one nuisance petty thief decided his best option was to shoot. He was wrong. If he had considered the proximity and number of the surrounding police officers he would have lain down and forgot all about his fire arm. As it was, he was a foul shot. Two feet to the right and he might have just clipped my earlobe. This did not, however, stop me pressing Lestrade to let me immediately know how to hold and work a weapon; one session was all I was allowed as Anderson had me reported for 'threatening' him.

After exceeding my monthly allowance of nicotine patches (what do they know anyway? They're all so stupid) I snuck into John's bedroom, his curtain was open, and the lamp light lit his profile. I could see by his softly parted lips and scrunched eyes that he was sleeping; one hand thrown carelessly up beside his head and the other resting protectively across his chest – he looked to be dreaming, and not a pleasant one judging by the quick REM I was observing.

That was not my main concern.

I had observed him place his revolver in the top draw of his bedside table, and I know from listening to all available sounds that the second floorboard to the right creaks- this allowed me to obtain the weapon. With a silent two footed leap I backed out of the room, knowing of course that the silence was pointless as I would be violently disrupting it in a few precious moments. I wanted to prove that I could do it.

I collapsed into his chair. It smelt of him, a scent of cologne but a more pungent smell of soap and (Earl Grey?) tea. Taking careful aim at a pre-drawn 'smiley' face, I took off the safety and placed my finger on the trigger. The first shot was nothing, as John had of course kept one empty barrel for safety purposes. Nevertheless, the second, being the calibre it was, was deafening. Crossing my legs lazily, I proceeded to let of another round, trying to empty it before Watson took action. I could see him standing in the door way, a look of what can only be described as pure confusion on his features. Then, in an instant, he made a decision. It was clear in his posture – it changed from that of a man half asleep to a tense, crouched pose. I took advantage of his uncertainty to spring up and attack the wall anew.

But I fully relaxed as I glimpsed him barrelling towards me, muttering something inane about Mrs. Hudson, in the hopes that I would do less damage as I fell. We tumbled through the air in an inconvenient heap of limbs and landed with what, considering our relative masses, must have been a considerable thump.

"Oh John do get off me!"

This was unexpected; as his body made contact with mine the rush didn't dissipate.

"You are rather heavy and I don't want to give Mrs. Hudson ideas"

This was a lie. Mrs. Hudson was out for the night. She had informed me the evening before. The thing was, the rush didn't only sustain its heady wave, but built and coalesced into a point where his torso brushed with mine. An unfamiliar sensation pulsed at all our contact points; this was too much. As he blushed without realising, I wriggled out between his arms, away from his face and headed quickly to the sofa to think. He, obviously, made tea.

And that was how I found myself staring into the depths of a light brown liquid that smelt of just the right amount of sugar, telling him he wouldn't understand. Which he couldn't, but it was not until after my statement that I got the feeling that it was not something he wanted to hear.

I wanted that feeling again. It was like heroin, but stronger. Like cocaine, but more potent. I had been unfortunate enough in my life to be spontaneously hugged by silly but grateful patrons, and not one of them, male or female, had elicited the feeling that Dr. John Watson just did.

This called for a rearrangement of the furniture inside my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Continuation of 'Clockwork Boredom' WARNING things gets hot and steamy and characterisation goes to pot. Comments welcome **

They both sat in their respective places, John waiting expectantly over his warm cup of English steam, Sherlock with elbows on knees and forehead rested on clasped hands.

"Put that down" Sherlock's voice was not a request, but a low command.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Put that infernal cup down!" he growled in reply, head jerking up and grey eyes flashing in what John could have sworn was anger. He felt a curl of apprehension whorl in the pit of his stomach, and something else entwine with it as he realised that he had never seen Sherlock angry before. Frustrated, annoyed, a little exasperated perhaps, but never angry.

"Fine" John's complacency calmed Sherlock, causing him to tilt back his head, expose his long throat and take a deep breath through his nose. In one swift movement he sprung over the wood separating them and gripped John's upper arms; long fingers enclosing round smooth bulks of trained muscle, black head leant against mousy blond, their curls mingling.

"You don't get it do you? Did you not feel that? THAT was it. I don't yet know how, or why, but that, John, was IT." He sank to his knees and rested his cheek on John's thigh, causing a shock to run through the soldier's spine. Carefully he placed a hand on the back of the consulting detective's neck, feeling him breathe heavily, his warm breath spreading through the fabric of the striped pyjamas he wore.

"Yes, I felt it. How couldn't I?"

Sherlock raised his head smartly and curled his fingers into John's thigh; expectant. He yearned for that feeling, wanted to lose control and stop thinking about the same infinitesimal things – like John's jumper. He knew it was old – the elbows were bare. He knew it was a gift –it was not John's label, but most of all, he knew it was getting in the way of what he wanted most.

Skin contact

He was sure that the effect of stripping the good doctor would have the same effect as distilling narcotics. He would remove the impurities and then...he could immerse himself in an all consuming feeling.

John could see all of this running behind the Detective's normally piercing eyes; they were glazed with the wanting. He was increasingly aware of Sherlock's lips and the smell of GSR mingled with the Universal Indicator that stained Sherlock's fingers. But there was something else, a scent that made his breath quicken to a staccato and catch unpleasantly in his throat. His pulse was visible beneath the skin as he caught the smell of something else, something... purely Sherlock. Unable to control the white wave that was roiling in the pit of his belly he leant down and placed his warm lips on Sherlock's.

"Hmmmmmm...ah" Sherlock released a satisfying groan into John's mouth as points of light flashed behind his eyelids. They increased in tandem with the swelling of an organ he previously had little use of; it twitched as John pulled them both to a standing position and pressed their bodies together roughly. Sherlock rocked his hips, revelling in the almost painful pleasure that ran up his thigh and settled in his groin. Hurriedly, he slipped his hand beneath John's Pyjama top, yanked it over his head and flung it across the room. John released his arms and was working at Sherlock's buttons when he had an idea.

He nipped at the pale flesh of collar bone with blunt teeth, causing Sherlock to arch his back. "Yesssss..."with this they fell onto the coach in silent agreement, gently rutting against each other – their hardness evident. John huffed and swept his fingers across Sherlock's soft belly and dipped them down, he felt Sherlock bite his lip and found he liked the pain. It felt good. More than good. Bloody brilliant. So did the feel of Sherlock pressing his hips into his cupped hand, filling it with a soft pulsating heat. Not unaware of the effect he was having on his new found fix, Sherlock slid a knee between the firm thighs on top of him, and brought it up. They both groaned simultaneously at this firm contact; feeling fabric cause delicious friction, but at the same time shivering at the cool air squeezing between their bare torsos.

"Oh, oh John... ahhhh..." The slick between their legs was too much, and John smudged it over the shaft in his hand, glorying in the way his favourite sociopath threw back his head and ground his hips. He liked it so much that he clambered between Sherlock's ankles and tugged at the elastic waistband gracing the angular hips before his mouth. Sherlock positively tingled at the hot breath wisping its way along the now exposed crease beside his arousal, and stilled as the warm of John's mouth enveloped him. His veins were traced by a wet probing tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**This gets graphic quickly, please be warned. I would LOVE for you to comment/review, and I hope I haven't ruined the characters for you x**

John worked his tongue delicately along the consulting detective's shaft; wetting it. This caused Sherlock's stomach to tense, and his breath to hitch. The raw sounds ripping their way from his throat raced their way down John's spine and urged him to tighten his grip. He felt large hands tangle in his hair and pull is head forward – Sherlock wanted more contact, more heat, more speed.

Their rocking increased, a straining tension building between them, John – with his head in Sherlock's lap, a painful erection between his knees and his hands full of Sherlock, who for his part had his head thrown over the sofa, hands in John's hair and legs thrown apart. They were sweating into each other's pores; slicking up their skins. Hot puffs of breath hung in the air, joining the echoes of their grunts.

"Hmm Sherlock... ahh...ah" John was now braced on Sherlock's leg and his brain refused to join together two coherent words, only continued to allow him the steady rhythm he was building with his right hand, a rhythm that hummed with energy, and picked up speed as they met each other's bluest blue eyes.

A spark of understanding past between them. This release would be bliss, and it was fast approaching. Crawling up their spinal columns and coiling snakelike in their groins, dredging up every memory of floating away on clouds of ecstasy and urging their frantic coupling.

"Oh..god, oh lord ..ah" a little faster.

"hmm.. yesssss" a little harder.

"ah..huhhh. FUCK" a little deeper.

"hmm.. ahhAHH"

Sherlock let out an animal like groan, verging on a roar. His eyes widened; pupils dilated, mouth open in a small 'o' of ecstasy. He felt a swelling and a tensing, a rising urge and then...

Release. Theirs was simultaneous, with a sound akin to keening John came, the slick wetness running down his muscled thigh, echoing the salty drips in his palm. He looked up to see Sherlock panting. He blinked expectantly, but there was no response.

So he untangled their limbs, placed his clean hand on the sofa and rose shakily to his feet. Stumbling over the disregarded firearm, and past their empty tea stained mugs, one if which had been thrown sideways unexpectedly, he made his way to his bedroom. Safe inside the door, he reached for a tissue, calmly wiped his hands and sank to the floor with his back against the wall; he was at a loss and unaware that Sherlock had sat himself up. Sherlock was sunk into the familiar comfort of the sofa, the crystal clarity of his mind fogging over. His clock began to grind as the patch beside him dried. But. Through the crack between the door jamb and the half closed bedroom door, he could see John. The sight of his flatmate still in a half dressed disarray and with his head in his hands was enough to stop the whirring of his mind for a moment. He felt that he should perhaps say something, but was not entirely sure what. 'Thank you', didn't seem appropriate, neither did 'I have never done this before'. So instead, he brushed the image out of his mind and walked weak kneed into the kitchen, picking up the mugs as he went and ignoring the revolver.

John accepted the hot drink from the dishevelled form above him with a wry smile. What had he expected? I love you?


End file.
